by Roger Weston
The fighters went insane. They roared with approval.
Chuck saw General Lazar sitting over by the gate. He was not cheering. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching Chuck with threatening, piercing eyes.
Muerte turned and faced Chuck. He looked like a sight from hell. Blood covered his face and bare, ripped chest.
The big man flared out his massive arms and smiled at Chuck with his eyes open wide. He walked toward Chuck, and as he approached, his giant quadricep muscles bulged like knots in tree trunks.
Chuck stood there casually as if he was waiting for a city bus—and in a way, he was. As Muerte approached, Chuck had the feeling he was about to get run over.
Muerte burst into a run and closed the gap in about two seconds. He was trying to tackle his victim, and take him to the floor. His eyes were insane with rage, and Chuck sensed that this was a man who liked to take out his target in the first six seconds.
But then, just as Muerte came within a few feet, Chuck faked to the left, then dove down at Muerte’s shins.
Caught off guard, the big man tripped and landed on his hard-bitten face.
Chuck sprung up with the speed of wildcat and attacked Muerte with a vengeance. He unleashed a fury of punches at the back of Muerte’s neck, preventing him from getting up and delivering successive packages of pain. He beat Muerte down onto the mat, but then the big man grabbed Chuck’s ankle and tugged. Chuck landed hard and rolled away.
He gained his feet and faced a vision from a nightmare—the scalp-red face of Muerte.
The big man closed the gap and started throwing wicked punches at Chuck, beating him backwards. Chuck took a combination of face-punches that came as fast as a string of firecrackers. The moment the punches stopped, he realized that he was dazed. Just as that realization clicked in his brain, Muerte delivered a chest kick. Chuck flew backwards, slamming into the fence. The chain links rattled. The Black Cobras roared with delight; their spit and saliva rained on Chuck.
Muerte flew at him like a sandbag swinging on a cord. He slammed into Chuck hard. As the two men fell, Chuck felt anaconda-like arms wrap around him.
Chuck hit the ground face-first with Muerte on his back. His face took a hard hit. His chest took a traumatic blow.
Chuck tried to roll out from under the steam roller. He rolled onto his side, but Muerte unloaded on him with a hammer fist.
Screams of victory erupted from the Black Cobras around the Octagon.
Muerte stopped beating Chuck’s face and started strangling him.
Chuck had always felt like his whole purpose in life was to endure pain and suffering. He was created to be a pain receptor. Muerte’s hands were powerful, and they didn’t just cut off Chuck’s breathing. They hurt his neck. Now he couldn’t even breathe while he hurt.
A primordial survival instinct flashed through Chuck’s consciousness. There comes a time in life when you either get the job done or you die trying. Chuck realized at that moment that if he died, there would be no justice. This idea was more like a truth that flashed through his awareness—extremely clear, but so fast it almost didn’t happen.
With a three-hundred-pound rhino strangling him, thought was not an option. At moments like this, life becomes much more elemental. He had only one impression on his brain and it was plastered on it like a billboard.
“One of us dies.” That’s how simple things were in a life-and-death moment. There was nothing to ponder, no time to contemplate. Nothing else was needed.
Chuck had the vice-grip hands of a trash truck affixed around his neck. Only one thing was called for. He jerked his hand out from under Muerte’s leg and rammed his palm upward into Muerte’s chin. The big man’s head whipped back and Chuck thought he heard a cracking sound.
Chuck still had three hundred pounds on him, so he unleashed a second chin jab. This time Muerte yelped like a wounded dog. He fell off of Chuck and crawled clear of danger.
But then something happened that Chuck didn’t expect. The big man got up. He was not finished.
Chuck was gasping for air as he gained his feet.
Muerte moved in. His resurgence pumped steroids into the Black Cobras’ morale. Shouts, and yells egged him on. Chuck felt bad energy all around him.
The chanting began again, as if they knew this time Muerte was going in for the kill.
The big man feinted, and Chuck took the bait. He countered with a jab, but Muerte dove inside and took Chuck to the mat.
Chuck used the impact as leverage to roll Muerte to the side. They were face to face and Muerte’s bad breath offended Chuck’s refined sensibilities. At that point Chuck realized he faced two most likely scenarios—and since he wasn’t interested in kissing Muerte, he reached up and clawed at his eyes.
Muerte screamed and rolled away, but then he whirled around kicking Chuck’s face and head with both feet. Chuck didn’t try to block the kicks because the brute’s legs were too powerful. He rolled out of range instead. Muerte scrambled after him on all fours. Chuck felt a hand on his ankle, and then the ankle was twisted. Chuck twisted with the action, rolling onto his back.
With his free leg, Chuck slammed his free foot into Muerte’s face. It was a poorly aimed glancing blow, but Muerte let go of Chuck’s leg.
The two men gained their feet and faced each other in a ritual as old as time, like two gorillas fighting over a mate. Then Muerte moved in. To Chuck, it felt like a silverback gorilla was coming after his lunch.
Chuck heard more shouts, yells, and gunshots.
“Muerte, Muerte, Muerte!”
Stepping into his own move, Chuck delivered a cupped hand blow at the big man’s ear, but took a punch at the same time, so his own blow struck the top of Muerte’s head, giving him neck trauma. Chuck twisted his body as he plunged his arm, following through on his strike. Muerte’s eyes opened wide, and Chuck saw fear in them. Chuck pivoted and rotated his own body to come back and delivered a strike with his weak arm. His left elbow hit the other side of Muerte’s injured neck. He then delivered a second cupped hand blow to Muerte’s left ear, repeating the trauma of the original injury.
Muerte looked stunned. He stood there on shaky knees looking right through Chuck. He seemed to be coming to terms with the fact that he had a severe injury and could no longer defend himself. His teeth began to chatter.
Chuck grabbed him by the ear and led him in a procession around the Octagon. He walked along the fence. All of the Black Cobras were dead silent now as Chuck led their hero in a walk of humiliation.
“This is the best you got?” Chuck yelled at them. He looked over at Lazar, who was watching him intently. “I don’t hear you cheering now. Look at him. I lead him around like a cow. Your champion is pathetic. You’re all sad.”
Chuck looked one of the Black Cobras in the eye when the man started to raise his gun. Chuck said, “You want to shoot me now? Is that it? Why don’t you come in here and fight, you coward? Haven’t you got the guts to enter the Octagon? You make me sick. You weak, pathetic killers. You prey on the weak and the innocent. You carry your gun around and shoot unarmed villagers in remote villages, but you don’t even have the guts to enter the Octagon and fight me with your bare hands.”
Leading Muerte by his ear, Chuck started to move again, but stopped and shoved Muerte toward the fence until his nose was touching the chain links. “Look at your hero,” Chuck taunted. “He’s all covered in blood and ready to kill me, but what’s wrong with him. I lead him around like a cow. Smile Muerte.” Chuck tugged on Muerte’s ear, traumatizing the big man’s injured neck. “I said smile!”
Now Muerte smiled, but it was a strained, rather creepy smile.
“That’s very nice,” Chuck said. “You’re a very friendly man, Muerte.”
Chuck tugged Muerte’s ear and led him on agin. The big man didn’t dare resist for fear of further neck trauma.
“Aren’t there any more challengers?” Chuck screamed. “Not even one? Why not? Are you afraid I’ll lead y
ou around in humiliation like Muerte here?”
“I’ll kill him,” one man shouted.
“I don’t think so,” Chuck said. “I’ll kill you though. Come on in.”
The man stood his ground.
“You’re like a cowering rat,” Chuck said, “but twice as ugly. I’m sure your mother is proud of her cowardly son, her pathetic little killer.”
Chuck continued to lead Muerte along the fence then stopped in front of Lazar.
“Here’s your man,” Chuck taunted. “A real killer.”
Chuck let go of his ear, and Muerte slowly lifted his hands to his neck. Chuck heard barely audible whimpering sounds.
“He needs a shower,” Chuck said. “He stinks. A lot of these creeps do. I can smell them from in here.” Chuck looked at Lazar’s bodyguard, a human gargoyle of a man standing six-four. “You’re the one I smell. Why don’t you come in here? I’m sure you can do better than Muerte.”
The man didn’t react.
“Damn, you’re ugly,” Chuck said. “Who was your mother?” Chuck touched his chin as if he was speaking. “I think I remember now. I saw your mother. She looks just like you. I saw her standing on a street corner. She made dirty comments to me as I walked by.” Chuck shook his head. “She was looking at me just like you are. Your mother. With earrings, down to her shoulders.”
The man eyed Lazar.
“Go ahead,” Lazar said to his guard. “Destroy him. Kill him and shut his mouth.”
The gargoyle nodded. An armed thug opened the door for him. Chuck half turned away. “That’s more like it!”
Just as gargoyle stepped through the doorway, Chuck rotated his body. His hand shot out like a torpedo. His palm crashed into gargoyle’s ear, slamming the big man’s head against the steel pole of the door post.
As fast as lightning, Chuck jumped through the door, ripped the gun from the hands of surprised guard and slammed the butt into the thug’s face. The man dropped like a sack of manure. Chuck lunged for Lazar, grabbing him by his collar and putting the AK-47 to his head.
“Talk, Lazar! Tell them to get away from me or you die!”
“Get back!” Lazar waved his arms.
“You told me I was going to die today, Lazar. I have nothing to lose. I kill you, they kill me. Tell them to back off now!”
“Do it!” Lazar ordered.
There was a moment of silence.
“Now!” Lazar screamed.
The men backed away.
“Tell them to put their guns down.”
Lazar hesitated.
“You tempt me, Lazar. Do you think I care if I die? Do you? There are days when I wish for it. And you want to play games? Do not tempt me! I might go down right now. You and I both.”
Lazar didn’t move.
“All right, let’s do it! Let’s go for it! You first Lazar, but I’ll take out four or five others before I go down. Go for it, you Black Cobra, pond scum. We’re gonna see how this turns out!”
“No!” Lazar said.
“Don’t mess with me, Lazar. You want a contest? I’ll hold nothing back. We will end this right here, right now if you mess with me!”
Lazar looked at his men. “Do as he says. Put your guns down. Everyone!”
All around the Octagon, men in black set their weapons down.
“All of them,” Chuck shouted.
The men began to remove handguns and knives from their pockets.
“Tell them to give me space,” Chuck said. “If they follow me, you will pay with your life.”
“Do not follow,” Lazar ordered
Chuck tugged on Lazar’s collar. “Let’s go.”
Chuck led Lazar out of the Octagon into the sunlight. The warm breeze of the Altiplano felt refreshing on his face. They walked past a little tree in a pot, and Chuck saw a spider attacking a bee. He took a deep breath of the fresh air and nudged Lazar along with the butt of the gun. He directed him to the nearest jeep. Chuck motioned for the keys and they got in. Chuck glanced back at the Octagon, but nobody was coming yet. Lazar looked eerily calm. Chuck held the AK-47 against Lazar’s ribcage. Then he started the jeep.
CHAPTER 27
Chuck revved the jeep and hit the gas, but Lazar batted the gun away and attacked him. Chuck lost control of the steering and his foot was forced down on the gas. The jeep smashed into the Octagon’s wall. Lazar had made a brilliant calculation that paid off, particularly when he scratched at Chuck’s eyes. The sudden pain disoriented Chuck, allowing Lazar to escape with the keys.
Chuck staggered away from the jeep, turned and unloaded bullets into the fuel tanks attached to the back of the jeep. Tracer bullets tore into them and erupted into a powerful explosion, igniting the Octagon on fire—including the front door, trapping some of the Black Cobras inside.
Chuck ran into the foothills that surrounded the mountain top Octagon retreat.
CHAPTER 28
Lazar was standing near the burning Octagon, yelling and pointing. He assigned several men to firefighting to save the Octagon and attached bungalows. Once he got them going, he took aside his elite six-man hunter-killer team.
“I saw the direction he headed,” Lazar said. “It was a critical mistake. He went north. That’s hard country, and he’s in rough shape from the fight. He won’t make it far. Gear up.”
With his Alpha assassination team geared up and ready to go he would finally preside over the demise of Chuck Brandt, a living legend.
***
The terrain was tough, but Chuck’s credo was simple: Adapt. Move fast. Act boldly.
He moved rapidly through rugged country. He covered a lot of ground. He had studied the terrain maps before he came here. He had imprinted the maps on his mind. One direction led toward very rugged country with no reason to go there. It was dangerous terrain and slow travel. He saw little sign of patrols. He traveled nonstop for two hours.
He was far enough now that the Black Cobras wouldn’t have a major advantage in knowing the terrain better than him.
Chuck jogged over the soft ground of the jungle on the back side of the Andes Mountains. He followed a series of ridges due to the steep terrain, but also descended several times down very steep slopes. He had several falls. He was already hurting from the fight, so more pain didn’t matter. He avoided broken bones and major wounds. He kept going.
The land spread out in front of him. He recalled that two parallel ranges of mountains ran north and south here. Splitting them in half was a 2,500-meters deep gorge, which was far deeper than the Grand Canyon. At the base of this deep gorge ran the Apurímac River, the source of the Amazon.
In most areas, the sides of the gorge were too steep to descend without ropes, but Chuck found and descended manageable slopes, but these hills were mountains that took time to climb and descend. On some slopes, he was lucky to survive. His hands, elbows, and knees were bleeding—and not from the fight in the Octagon. Wounds on his face started to bleed from both the Octagon and from a long tumble down an almost vertical slope. It was rough country.
CHAPTER 29
General Lazar stood on a large boulder by the river and glassed Brandt with his binoculars. Brandt was ascending another mountain. In one sense, he had to credit Brandt for his strategy. By leading a chase over such brutal territory, he had succeeded in tiring out Lazar’s guerilla fighters, which Lazar had not expected. This was their own territory while Brandt was the outsider. The territory should be working against the outsider, not the native fighters. The problem was that Brandt was maintaining a blistering pace. Lazar was feeling weary himself. He was starting to wonder if Brandt’s father was a mountain goat. The situation was deteriorating and could not be allowed to deteriorate further.
Lazar lowered the binoculars and gazed at the hill for a minute. A thousand battles swirled in his head, and for some reason, the Battle of Arbela bubbled to the surface of his thoughts. The terrain of Erbil was far different, but the principles employed struck him as relevant and adaptable. Darius of Persia had c
ommanded a massive army of 250,000. Alexander the Great attacked with a mere 47,000 men.
As brave Alexander had advanced, the Persians tried an outflanking move, which would have allowed them to attack from the wings and cause havoc behind the lines. However, this attempt was an iconic failure. Alexander’s javelin men rendered the Persian chariots useless. Seizing the opportunity, Alexander charged with his own cavalry on the right wing. He broke the Persian center, forcing Darius to flee. This left the Persians in a vulnerable position. They attacked viciously, but with Darius on the run, Alexander was in a position to defeat them. It was the third victory in a brilliant career. Lazar decided that he would adapt this basic strategy. He had one major advantage that Alexander lacked and that would ensure his success. While Alexander had been outnumbered five to one, Lazar had Brandt outnumbered six to one. At this point, it was just a matter of executing his strategy and killing Brandt.
Lazar turned to his team of men. He looked into their cold eyes. He had chosen these Pucara men as his elite assassin team for a good reason. They were utterly ruthless. They were hellhounds that led his Black Cobras in acts of domination, which were really just live training activities for what was to come. Soon all the Cobras would deploy to America to unleash chaos in a land where freedom was hanging by a thread, a land where half the senators were double agents and many more were for sale at bargain prices.
Lazar looked at Chano, one of the Pacura men, with his big flat face and mutilated earlobes. Tragedy filled his ruthless eyes. He was angry that he had lost a thousand-dollar bet when Brandt won his fight, angry that a single American had nearly burned alive dozens of Black Cobras, including himself. Chano knew plenty about the horrors of fire because he had overseen the fiery destruction of two small, remote villages. Thirty families had perished in the heat. When Brandt had taunted him with flames, the act lit a fire in his brain. Flames danced in his vision. He was dying to kill the American in the worst way. Lazar understood Chano’s primitive thinking: a tragedy for a tragedy.
